The thing on the other side of the fine line to hate
by izzabella11
Summary: Snapshots of Quinn and Carrie. Not really (at all) canon.
1. Chapter 1

Watching Carrie at work is one of Quinn's pleasures in life. It's not just the aesthetic element, although she's hardly a pain to look at, but the single-minded intensity and focus on whatever she's doing; whether it's hunting down terrorists, filing reports or even doing the crossword. He wonders whether that intensity translates into any other aspects of her life; fleetingly imagines her above him, transfixing him with that stare as she sinks down onto him before he reminds himself of professionalism and responsibility and moves the thought to a recess of his brain where he can - will - explore it later.

It's not often he can get the jump on her though; she hasn't reacted to his presence which means she's either lost in her own world or ignoring him deliberately. Either way, he has no intention of moving. It's peaceful in the office, only a few stragglers still around this late, and he has nothing else to be doing.

For a moment he indulges himself with the idea of sneaking up on her just to see her jump, see the wild animal flash in her eyes that spikes through his blood, but he resists. There's something about her that hooks him; he can't tell whether it's her personality or her illness or maybe a combination of the two, but from their first interaction and her subsequent loathing of him he's not figured out to back out from it.

He can't tell if he wants to hit her or hold her; whether he wants to fuck her until she can't stand or cherish her. He can't tell if all they're mutually exclusive feelings; he suspects not but that touches on rather darker territory than he's in for tonight.

"Are you just going to stand there?" she asks without looking up; so she was ignoring him then. Comforting; she puts herself in enough risky situations without the worry of her senses being dulled.

He steps inside silently, standing over her left shoulder. 90% of black-ops soldier scans over the documents she's working on, while 10% red blooded male reminds him that she's wearing a low top and push-up bra.

"Everyone's gone home" he comments, and that makes her look up in surprise.

"I thought it was earlier."

"It's pretty late. You going to head soon?"

She surveys the carnage that is her desk, scrubs her fingers through her hair and shakes her head.

"Need help?"  
A bitter laugh escapes her at that and he can't help but join in. He isn't expecting her to agree but somehow she does; whether through boredom or sleep deprivation or maybe just the unusual sensation of desiring company. Coffee-fuelled, they work through the night, and it's not until the early hours of the morning that she suggests taking a break.

He draws out a hipflask and she swigs without a second glance. He's momentarily impressed she doesn't flinch at the strength of the liquor, and takes a hit himself.

"So why are you here so late?" she asks, eyes sliding over to him.

He toys with a few answers, the truth among them, before speaking, which is stupid because now whatever he says she will take as a lie or evasive answer.

"I had a late meeting, thought I'd wander around and see if anyone was still here."

She accepts it, swigs again from his hipflask and makes a pleased sigh.

"Thanks"

He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

"I don't really sleep much any more."

He hums in agreement, surprised that she's decided to open with that, not quite sure how to respond without pressurising her.

Even the silence is too much; he can feel her shoulders hunch slightly and she clambers to her feet with a wry smile.

"Thanks...again."

He unfolds from his position on the floor, invading her personal space just a little as he snaffles the hip flask back with a grin.

"Your turn to supply refreshments next time"


	2. Chapter 2

"You know the really funny thing?"

They're facing each other across a desk, body language angrily mirrored. A vein is popping in Quinn's forehead and Carrie has to fight with herself not to punch him in his arrogant face.

"Sure, Quinn, tell me what's so funny"

He leans in so their noses are almost touching, his expression a mockery of a smile

"You've spent so long trying to be brave, and you're the most scared little girl I've ever met."

She can't help it; she barks out a laugh. Nothing scares her; she has a frankly cavalier attitude to her own safety and if Quinn doesn't know that then he's even more deluded than she originally thought.

"Is that all you've got? Scared? You're going to have to push harder than that if you want a reaction"

His lip curved sharply.  
"Yes. And I'm right. You're fucking terrified. But not of danger, not of terrorists or even death, Carrie. You're scared of rejection. You put on this facade of bravery and you keep everyone at arm's length and you treat the people who care about you like shit because you're scared you'll fuck them up. You're so scared that you'll let someone show you kindness and they'll take it away that you fuck around with known terrorists because they're a safer bet. You're scared if you show any warmth or kindness it will be rejected, and if you buy into the idea of trust and honesty you'll be betrayed so you don't even bother. You are a scared little girl and you need to grow the fuck up."

The silence expanded between them, oppressive and heavy. Carrie forced herself to breathe easily, forced herself to bite back the tears that were welling up, drew a blanket over the hurt feeling blossoming. She felt cut to the quick, shocked and shaky. She felt angry that without ever wanting him to see it, he had reached inside, grabbed her biggest fear and held it up to her face where she couldn't back away.

"Anything else?" she asked evenly, knuckles white against the mahogany desk.

Quinn stared back impassively.

"Yes," he said flatly, "one more thing. Take some fucking time out. Before you make a really big mistake and you don't have me and Saul here to clear it up for you."

"Well," she said with a sarcastic tip of her head, "I'm glad we had this chat. Thanks for all the advice. Go fuck yourself"

And with a cheery wave she turned on her heel and marched out. Peter sighed, massaging a temple with his forefinger before he dropped down in the chair.

He sat there, lamplit, lost in his own thoughts and didn't move until the sun rose the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

He's drunk by the time she turns up in the bar; it's been a bad day (and a bad year before that) and the bartender hasn't even attempted conversation, simply filling up his scotch with a semi-disapproving look.

He feels her sit down next to him but doesn't bother looking up.

"If you're waiting for an apology, you can go wait somewhere else" he says flatly, swirling his drink. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her gesture to the bartender and another glass is set down in front of her.  
"I'm not expecting an apology" she whispers, although her voice is steady, "and I'm not going to give one. But we still have to work together, even if you think I'm a scared little girl and I think you're an emotionally constipated fuckwit."

That draws a twitch of a smile out of him at least and he tips his glass in a mockery of a toast. In her defence she doesn't ask what's happened to have him wasted before 5pm on a weeknight; then again he would bet a year's salary she'd been in the same position within the last week.

She drinks silently next to him; it infuriates him that he is transfixed by her even without her eyes on him or his on her; he knows he could make the play, take her home, carve their respective notches in bedposts, but somehow it isn't what he wants and he can't make sense of that so he stops trying.

They sit, wordless but companiable, until the bar closes and then they walk too-carefully out to the car park. Quinn jams his hands in his pockets and tips his head back, staring up at the stars. They don't spin, so he must have sobered up at some point. Beside him, Carrie's breath fogs and mists in the cool air.

She turns to face him and lays a hand on his wrist; her fingers are so cold they almost burn, and he knows he would only have to lean in an inch for her to close the distance; sex is her currency, her emotion and her bargaining chip. Sex is her winning and he's not willing to compromise himself.

"No, Carrie," he breathes, and hurt flashes across her face for a microsecond before she shrugs it off. She raises a shoulder and goes to turn away, but he grasps her forearm before she can.

"When I fuck you," he enunciates, and her pupils dilate immediately, "it will be me that you're thinking of, and you will want it because you want me, not as a manipulation play. When I fuck you, I don't want to have to think about how I'm enabling your self-destruction. Do you understand?"

She stares at him, utterly poleaxed. Hadn't seen that one coming, clearly.

"What makes you think..."

He cuts her off, in control of the situation now.

"Call it a gut feeling, Carrie. A hunch. Call it optimism or delusion if you like."

She laughs, backs away, shaking her head.

"You're drunk, Quinn. Go home."

He smiles placidly and zips his jacket.

"Night, Carrie."

Her stunned gaze follows him away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Carrie calls in sick the next day, and Quinn can't get any information from Saul about where she is or what's wrong. He could go to her house of course; he could tap her phone or hack her emails, but somehow it doesn't feel right so he forces himself to be patient. Did he cross a line, really? Yes, his brain supplies; a significant line, but he doesn't regret it. The breaks in her self control are kryptonite to him; her eyes flare and pop and something spikes in his blood, something that he would be a lot happier defining as lust but somehow feels more complex.

It takes two weeks later and he still hasn't seen her; if it weren't for Saul's reassurances that she's fine (and mild dismay as to why he keeps asking) he would have tracked her down by now. As it is he's angry; with her for making him care and at himself for caring.

The knock at his door takes him by surprise; nobody knows his address so he's half assuming it's a salesperson or similar when he opens it. The sight of Carrie soaked to the skin is not one he's expecting.

"Hey" she says, at least having the decency to look sheepish.

He raises an eyebrow and steps aside to let her in. The rain outside is torrential and he can see she's soaked through; if he didn't think it would earn him another gunshot wound he would appreciate the effect the rainwater has had on her shirt, but as it is he wordlessly digs out a bottle of rum and pours it into two tumblers. She accepts it with visibly shaking hands; hard to tell whether it's the cold or emotion but he doesn't comment.

He's itching to know where she's been; why she's here; why she's here now - but he's also dealt with enough wildcards in his time to know how carefully he has to tread here.

"Sorry...for just barging in here"

He shakes his head and shrugs

"It's fine"

"It's raining pretty hard"

He lets her see him flicking his gaze up and down her body and tilts his head in acknowledgment, and she relaxes fractionally, looking out of the window as she perceives he isn't going to interrogate her.

"You want to grab a shower?" he asks absently, moving piles of laundry off the sofa, "I've got an old tracksuit you can dry off in."

He expects her to refuse but after a moment's hesitation during which her teeth audibly chatter she nods and follows him towards the bathroom. He notices how she keeps her distance, eyes flicking around when she thinks he isn't looking. He wonders if she's off her meds again and wonders if he might like her better when she's crazy. He wonders if that makes him an awful person and decides he doesn't much care.

She hits the shower and carefully leaves the door a fraction ajar, a silent invitation that he notices and forces himself to ignore, instead heating up soup and defrosting some bread. He tries not to think about her in the shower; tries not to think what would happen if he pushed the door. Tries not to imagine how she looks in the steam with her head thrown back and water drops trailing the curve of her spine.

He jerks back to reality when he hears the shower turn off, and busies himself at the stove, fully aware he's acting more like a mother hen than a black ops specialist. Carrie pads in and peers over

"Have you got any spare?"

He pretends to consider that and nods, and they sit on his sofa eating soup out of bowls in an oddly homely scene that belies the frazzled state she turned up in.

In the end it takes less time for her to start talking than he expected.

"You were right. About Brody."

He angles his shoulders slightly towards her but keeps his eyes fixed ahead and his expression casual, hoping she'll continue

"I...I thought about it a lot. I figured that I pinned my hopes on him because...it was so likely he wouldn't come back that I had nothing to lose. It wouldn't be my fault it all fucked up. You were right."

He worries for a second that she'll start crying but she seems more numb than that. They sit in silence for a few beats before she shifts fractionally and he knows he has to say something to keep the moment or she'll get up and leave. The words won't come though; she hesitates a fraction waiting for him to stop her before she unfolds and levers herself up.

"I shouldn't have come here. It was intrusive and unprofessional...I'm sorry."

"Hey," he's up before he can stop himself, hand closing around her wrist, "we're well beyond professionalism, Carrie. Seriously."

She huffed a laugh through her nose and pulled her hand away but settled back on the sofa, and if her knee was touching his then neither of them would mention it.

"Don't you think people like us are meant to be alone?" she asked casually, masking the desperation underlying the words. "Don't you think it's safer that way?"

He couldn't answer for a long moment, considering and rejecting answers. What gave him the right to lecture Carrie on being scared of attachment when his entire life was built around that premise?

"I don't think anything in our lives is safe" he said cautiously, "But I don't think most humans are designed to be happy alone."

She sat in silence for a while after that and Quinn lost himself in his thoughts. When he next looked around Carrie was asleep, her breathing deep and even. She'd visibly lost weight since he last saw her and something protective shifted inside him.

With a sigh, he moved the blanket from the back of the sofa to cover her and went to bed, knowing in the morning she would be gone.


	5. Chapter 5

The game they play, in their day to day life, is a dangerous one and fatal if they spend too long thinking about what could happen. The game of espionage rarely ends in safe retirement; that's why they do it. It's why they don't get involved, why they don't trust, don't get close to each other. You never know when your partner will be moved away, or wounded, out of action, when they might just disappear off the face of the earth.  
Peter knows this as well as anyone, but he still isn't prepared for the day that his phone rings and Saul's voice is gruff and broken on the end of the line.

"Carrie's disappeared."

The bottom falls out of his chest and for a split second he can't breath, feels as though he's been plunged headfirst into ice-cold water.

"Quinn..."

"How?"

Saul huffs out a breath; Peter can imagine him massaging his temples.

"She didn't turn up today, she hasn't been answering her phone, so I sent Virgil to haul her in...her house has been trashed, signs of a struggle and no Carrie."

Quinn breathes out heavily through his nose, mind racing.

"Was she working on anything?"

"Not on the books"

He snorts; like that means anything.

"Want me to take a look around her place?"

He arrives at her house less than an hour later, stomach clenching in anticipation of what he might find. Signs of a struggle for sure; the place is a wreck, splintered furniture and smashed glass all over the place. Blood is splattered around more liberally than he would like; forensics will need to come in and deal with that, but he hopes it isn't hers.

Would she have had the foresight to leave a trail? Something for him and Saul to follow?

He prowls the house for what feels like hours; no joy. Unusually for Carrie there are no papers out that might give him a lead; he can figure that she had been in bed when she was attacked, can see that whoever came for her took the route 1 approach of smashing through her kitchen window and clambering in, but that's where the trail goes cold.

He retraces his steps, tries to piece together what happened, but he can't focus beyond the rising panic and worst case scenarios. Anger surges; at himself for being weak, at her for making him care, for putting them both in danger. Fury at whoever has taken her. Still, he has a job to do; retribution can and will have to wait.

After 5 days of searching, watching, surveilling, sneaking and waiting they are still no closer to finding her and the strain is showing on everyone. Quinn is fairly sure Saul hasn't slept since she vanished; the office is quiet with everyone speaking in hushed tones and strewn with coffee cans and takeaway containers. It's a testament to her as an operative that even those not scheduled to work have come in but they all know the longer they have to wait until they find her the worse the outcome is likely to be.

He is watching CCTV footage almost mindlessly, eyes screaming for rest, when he hears a shout from the other side of the room, people instantly rushing to the monitor.

"Where is she?"

"Not a clue. We're calling the station now; look..."

Quinn leans over the monitor and watches in grainy footage as Carrie approaches the helpdesk, lists to one side, throws out a hand to save herself and collapses in a heap on the floor, members of the public leaping up in shock and crowding around. He can't make out what happens next; they fastforward through the reel to see paramedics arrive and load her onto an ambulance, completely unmoving.

What they don't expect is for her to appear in the doorway moments later, pale and exhausted but still on her feet.

He wants to fly to her and either hold her or throttle her, but forces himself to lean back against the monitor, sagging in relief momentarily.

"I'm sorry" she croaks out, "I tried to call but I couldn't get to a phone and then I figured it would just be easier for the ambulance to take me here..." she drifts off, looking around, "Where's Saul? I need to debrief him, I need..." she sways on her feet again and this time Quinn does move, ducking under her arm to keep her upright and wrapping the other around her waist.

"You need medical attention" he says firmly, "Saul can wait."

"No," she pulls away, wild eyed, "No, it has to be now."

As though sensing the commotion, Saul appears, grasping Carrie by the elbow.

"It's done?" he asks, urgency colouring his tone into something unrecognisable as concern. Carrie seems to either not care or not notice; her face cracks from anxiety into a beam as she looks up at him.

"It's done" she confirms, "but it got messy. We need to clean up, we need..."

Saul raises a hand to cut her off and shakes his head.

"We'll get it sorted; you need to go home."

"I can help, I'm fine..."

Something snaps in Quinn at that point and he slams his hand down so hard on the table that he will feel the sting for days.  
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he spits, squaring up to her, not even recognising her fractional step back, "this was a play? Do you have any idea how worried we've been, how many resources we wasted on getting you back?"

Saul moves between the two of them, both hands palm forward, conciliatory. Quinn doesn't want conciliation; he wants to break something.

"It was outside of what you need to know Quinn," and there's a definite tone of warning in his voice, "and it certainly wasn't meant to play out like this."

"And what was the extraction plan? Since when has it been okay to leave your operatives with no fucking backup incase things go south?"

"Peter, you might want to consider removing yourself from this situation before you say something you really regret" growls Saul, "This how we work and if you don't like it I'm sure your previous employers would happily find an opening for you."

His fists are clenched, teeth grinding and he can barely breathe with the sheer fury of it, but when he looks down at Carrie and sees the fear in her eyes he forces himself to breathe out and relax his muscles one by one as he backs away from them, unable to break eye-contact.

"I apologise, Saul. That was out of line; I was just concerned. It won't happen again."

Saul shakes his head once to the side; somewhere between acceptance of the apology and wordless warning about what will happen if he does it again.

He slips out of the room, ignoring the whispers that hiss up as the door closes, and heads for the bathroom. In the mirror he looks nothing more or less than exhausted; not from lack of sleep but from the course his life has taken. A trail of bodies and regrets; he won't let this be one of them. Different bosses in the past would have seen a bullet between his eyes for speaking up like that; Saul is gracious enough that he will forgive, although never forget.

As he splashes water on his face, the door clicks and before he's even straightened up he feels hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm.

Carrie.

"You had my back today" she breathes, quickly, as though the words hurt her, "and I know it's what you do but I still wanted to say thank you. Because even if I don't seem like I appreciate it...you know..." she pauses; he can't move, transfixed by the oddness of the situation, "it's just that I'm not used to it. Having someone looking out for me."

He forces himself to breathe out slowly, and then in for a few counts. Her grip on his shoulders has switched from comforting to vice-like and he realises how much this weakness is costing her.

"You should be" he says softly, looking up into the mirror to make eye contact again. She smiles at him; somewhere between disbelieving and indulgent, and then before he can even process it she raises herself onto tiptoe and presses an open mouth kiss to behind his ear, lingering for a fraction of a second before trailing her hand back down his arm and slipping out of the bathroom.

Well, fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

Their relationship softens after that incident; Carrie understands now why Quinn acts as he does and on some level is starting to accept his affections. It's slow progress; on occasion she'll back off, needing her own space so much she can barely look him in the eye but there are small concessions she makes. Once a week she allows him to bring her coffee and a croissant in the morning- any more often is met with a furrowed brow and a twist of the lips. Some Fridays she stops by his desk and asks if he wants to grab a drink and he never refuses. Those nights they carefully drink to within their limits, chat about inconsequential things and part with a smile. The relationship feels balance on a knife-edge; both too proud and stubborn to push further; but comfortable where it is. Quinn wonders sometimes if this is the most intimacy Carrie has ever developed with anyone. He wonders why the thought of becoming close to her doesn't frighten or repulse him.

Carrie lies in bed sometimes and asks herself what she's doing letting him get close; closeness is weakness in this business, but she can't remember anyone having her back and caring as fiercely as he does, and she's selfish enough to take it despite her best intentions. She's stupid enough to start caring too- she can't deny that she's always been attracted to him in the 'bad news' way that has always worked for her so well in the past- but now she finds herself missing his company when he's not around, a nagging worry at the back of her mind when he's out doing whatever it is that they don't tell her, when he goes away for a week and comes back later with his lips thin and tense and his eyes shadowed.

It's after one of those missions that she stumbles across him in the bar. Well, really she had been looking for him, but she would deny that until she was blue in the face if anyone was brave or stupid enough to ask. He's been gone for six days, longer than usual, but she'd seen his car parked out front that morning and gone hunting.

He either doesn't notice her or doesn't want to register her, because he continues staring blankly into his glass until she takes a seat next to him. He looks up then, and something in his face is utterly broken and bereft, so much so that she loses her breath in the intensity of it.

"Peter," she breathes, "what happened to you?"

He knocks back the drink and smiles unpleasantly

"My job, Carrie. I wouldn't worry yourself about it."

The words sting, and she's reminded why getting close to anyone is a mistake. You open yourself up and you get hurt; it never ends differently. A large part of her wants to walk away, to extend the distance between them and pretend none of this has happened.

The small part that reminds her of his protectiveness, his sheer bravery and intensity in shouting down Saul, keeps her sitting there and ordering her own drink.

"I don't remember asking for your company" he says sourly, still staring down at his empty glass. She gestures the bartender to refill it and clinks her glass against his.

"You had my back, and now I have yours. Even if you're being a complete arse"

"I don't need your help" he says sharply, "have you forgotten how we work?"

He means as operatives of course; alone. No ties, no risk. But she realises, and he probably does, that Carrie and Quinn don't work alone any more.

"We work together" she says, and if there's a break in her voice he doesn't comment on it, and if there are multiple ways of interpreting that statement he doesn't comment on that either. He doesn't say anything; doesn't trust his voice or know what to say. His anger evaporates, leaving exhaustion in its wake, and he doesn't want to fight any more. They sit in silence, reflective, until it's closing time.

He pushes his stool back and wavers; he's been drinking most of the day and he's bone tired. This time it's Carrie who catches him, then staggers slightly under his weight with a surprised laugh.

"Ok, enough for Peter" she says, draping his arm over her shoulder. He could probably walk just fine on his own but right now the physical contact feels like it might be the only thing holding him together. He couldn't drive anyway so he doesn't complain when she supports him over to her car and they drive back to hers. His exhaustion intensifies the closer they get, gnawing into his bones, and his eyes are slipping closed before he knows it.

"Hey," she shakes his shoulder gently "just a couple more minutes of being awake, ok?"

He stretches, shoulders cracking pleasingly, and slowly unfolds from the car. Wordlessly they head in; she leads him upstairs and sits him down on her bed, kneeling down at his feet to unlace his shoes. He's never seen this side to her; only with Brody, and he's not convinced that wasn't at least partly a play.

There's nothing sexual in her actions when she strips his shirt and jeans off and folds them neatly and his heart aches at the idea of being cared for like this. For the first time since he can remember, since maybe the birth of his son, his throat closes up and he leans back on the bed, turning away so she won't see his weakness. Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness he thinks he can feel a thumb brush over his cheek, but he's too far gone to register it and sleep claims him.

He wakes up in the morning feeling refreshed and oddly at peace. Carrie is sleeping next to him, curled up in a ball with her hair covering her face, and he wonders briefly about rolling over and wrapping his arms around her. He's itching to do it; maybe he would have if she hadn't opened her eyes at that moment, looked up and smiled at him with the most simple, genuine smile he'd seen on her face.  
"Morning" she sighs, only half awake, her voice husky.

His self control flees and his better judgement vanishes and he raises a hand to brush her hair out of her face, thumb skating over her cheek as she looks back at him wide eyed before he pulls her in and kisses her. It's tender and chaste; they fit together and relief floods through him when it's clear she isn't going to push him away. Relief gives way quickly to lust, and desire curls dark and insistent in the pit of his stomach as he lets one hand trail down her side, grazing over her breast and pulling her in close. She pulls back fractionally to give herself purchase to flip him over; hands tangling in his short hair she straddles him, peppering him with breathless kisses.

"Carrie, Jesus" he breathes, pulling her up by her shoulders. She's magnificent; cheeks flushed, hair tousled, eyes fixed on him.

He feels like he should say something but his head is fuzzy and spinning with lust, and when she twists her hips against his erection his eyes very nearly roll back into his head.

He pulls her down instead, desperately wanting to regain control, desperately not wanting this to be over (which feels like an increasing risk with every time Carrie rubs against him). He rocks back against her deliberately, enjoys her sigh of pleasure and does it again, brushing his lips over the join between her neck and shoulder. Sex is usually functional for him; at best a means to an end or a manipulation; it feels alien to want to take the time to explore, to want to savour and draw it out.

"You're doing bad things to my self control" he says, and she smiles shyly, bracing her hands on his chest. He reaches around to pull off her vest, almost breathless again at the sight of her naked. She arches and moans as he sits up, taking a nipple into his mouth, thumbs smoothing over her ribcage. She's so slight, he thinks, he could almost snap her in half; but he knows her strength as well, knows that she would take his worst and more.

As if to test out his theory, he nips down hard on her breast; she cries out and then sighs again as he smooths over the bite with his tongue.

"Please" she whimpers, "I want you"

His cock twitches in interest against the junction of her thigh and she grinds down again, friction fizzing in his veins.

"Don't. Move. An. Inch" he instructs, swinging his legs out of bed and hunting for his jeans. He wants to stretch this out, savour it, but it's been too long for his body to withstand it. Carrie is propped up on her elbows, unashamedly naked, her cheeks still flushed and pupils dilated as she watches him roll on the condom.

It moves so quickly then; she sinks down onto him, head thrown back; even through the latex she's hot and tight and so slick and smooth that he feels like 15 again and ready to explode. He grabs her hips, takes a breath to centre himself, and thrusts up; the noise she makes is obscene and he's pretty sure he'll hear it in his dreams. He sends a prayer up to a god he doesn't believe in that she's as close to the edge as he is and only a couple of moments later when he moves his hand between them and brushes his thumb over her clit she freezes, shudders and contracts hard around him, her breath coming out in ragged sobs and fractions of obscenity. He's right on the edge; three more thrusts and he's gone, heart thudding and vision blurred.

He'd usually pull out straight away, clean up and get out, but he can't bring himself to walk away. His thumb finds Carrie's wrist and he grins as he realises her pulse is racing as fast as his; she settles forward onto his chest and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair back. It's almost like they're normal people, he thinks, for a second- and for once it doesn't make him angry or bitter, but sad in the knowledge the moment won't last.

She's exhausted, pliant but slightly sticky against him and his arm is starting to go numb when she moves. He becomes increasingly aware of the need to shuck the condom and pee and shifts fractionally, sliding out of her.

They don't need words; she brushes her lips against his insistently, deepening the kiss until his libido is just starting to stir again, before regretfully climbing out of bed.

"I'm going to shower" she says, gesturing towards the bathroom. He nods, so utterly relaxed he can barely bring himself to breathe, let alone speak.

Food, and showering, and work can wait, he decides, leaning back and closing his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

He's woken by Carrie curling into his side, freshly showered and dressed for work, less than half an hour later

"Sleepy head" she teases, brushing her lips against his jawline, "Take the day off."

He considers it for a moment; likes the idea.

"Take the day off yourself" he suggests, and rolls over, pinning her underneath him, so he can't be misinterpreted.

"Yeah?"

She's tempted; he can see her resolve wavering and pushes his advantage

"I promise I'll make it worth your while."

She grins at that, delighted, and tilts her head

"Oh really?"

Beside the bed, her phone rings and her face twists.

"Oh really?!"

She looks at him, conflicted, and he jerks his head. With a grumble she squirms under his arm and answers her phone.

"Yeah...no, I overslept..."

Quinn takes the opportunity while she's distracted to wrap his arms around her, kissing the back of her neck where her shirt leaves the skin exposed. Her breath stutters when he sucks on the top vertebrae and he grins as she aims a slap at him.

"I'm gonna be a bit late, Saul...maybe an hour? No...I haven't heard from Quinn..."

He wonders briefly how he feels about that, and then wonders at what point he grew a fucking vagina and lost all his brain cells. Of course they're not going to tell people about their thing, if it even is a thing.

He wonders what he will do if (when) she pushes him away. He wonders if he will be able to take it, whether he will care. He wonders if he will break her before she has the chance to run. He wonders if they will rebuild each other when they break. He wonders if this is their last chance.

Carrie is off the phone now and frowning at him.

"You've gone distant" she accuses, "Regrets?"

God love Carrie and her bluntness. Quinn doesn't know how he'd have dealt with a subtle conversation; this he can handle.

"None" he breathes, pulling her down against his chest, "Apart from you going to work."

She murmurs her agreement against his neck, and then pulls away with a sigh.

"I really do have to go."

He releases her reluctantly, gratified that she doesn't move away from him for a moment.

"I really want to stay"

"Go" he says, catching her face between his hands and kissing her. He intends it to be brief but she leans into the contact, slanting her mouth against his and nipping gently on his lower lip.

"Carrie..."

"I'm going" she breathes against his lips, hands braced on his shoulders.

"I'm not going to let you go anywhere if you don't move in five seconds" he says, and he means it; arousal is spiking through him and work be fucked, he wants her.

More than that, almost, he doesn't want her to leave. If she leaves then he will have to and he has no idea when he'll see her. He doesn't want to leave this comfortable bubble and go back to what they had before.

"Ok" she sighs, getting up, "I'm gone."

He rolls, catches her hand, wonders about saying something. Her expression is soft and he wonders if she is in the same position. He seems to be doing an awful lot of wondering recently.

"Are you gonna come in today?"

He considers it, thinks about all the reports he has to write, and pulls a face to her visible amusement.

"I'll see you there then?"

"This afternoon sometime. You got a key I can use to lock up?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'll take the spare; mine's on the kitchen table."

"Ok then"

"Ok"

The silence stretches for a moment before she huffs a laugh.

"Are you gonna make me do it?"

Tension broken, he grins

"I think I am"

She laughs again, and grabs her jacket.

"Or I could just let you squirm. Bye!"

He rocks up at work around lunchtime, aware he looks visibly more relaxed and also aware he left his car at Langley overnight so anyone with two braincells to rub together would be able to figure out he didn't go home.

The day is interminable. Carrie is in meetings with Saul and as soon as she's out he gets called down for a training session. It's busy, and he should be focussed, but all he can think about is the morning, images and noises freeze-framing through his mind.

"Quinn!"

He jerks upright, grateful he's had an ear on the conversation, and manages to input something vaguely intelligent. Irritation grates at him; he needs to be better than this. He focusses hard on the rest of the meeting and is doing so well at being productive until Carrie appears at his desk with a cup of coffee and a question about the impact of new legislation and what he thought, and he's right back to square one wanting to pull her onto his lap.

Maybe she sees that in his expression, or maybe she's in the same repeat reel as he is, because high points of colour appear in her cheeks and her hand twitches fractionally when she hands over the coffee.

He feels suddenly more powerful for the knowledge that she is rattled, and stretches out in his chair. She watches every shift of his muscles under his shirt, seeing exactly what he's doing, and smiles.

"Better get back to it" she says, gesturing to the pile of files on his desk, and saunters away, a little more swing in her hips than normal.

Fuck, he thinks with a grin. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he's genuinely in over his head. And he couldn't be happier about it.


	8. Chapter 8

She hasn't texted or called him in 5 days when he gets fed up and breaks into her house. He's not a clingy man, far from it, but everyone has limits and when he has his own key it isn't really breaking in (although if he steals it probably isn't strictly speaking his key)

He prowls quietly through the house; cold, deserted, lights off, and an uncomfortable feeling stirs in him as he takes the stairs up. Her bedroom door is ajar and he can see a shape under the covers, not moving.

"Carrie?"

She doesn't respond apart from to pull the covers over her head and he can feel his temper beginning to bubble at her childish behaviour as his panic for her safety recedes.

"You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

No response.

"Carrie, this is not okay..."

Still no movement, apart from fractional twitches; he realises suddenly she's probably crying and feels like a dick for a second until he remembers why he's here in the first place and strides over to the bed, pulling the covers back. She doesn't even try to stop him, just lies there staring ahead, mouth twisted miserably.

She's lost weight, even in the week since he last saw her. There's a gauntness to her face he hasn't seen before. He's not a fan. He thinks about reaching out and decides she'd probably flinch and he can't bear the thought of seeing that.

She's beginning to shiver and he's beginning to feel like a dick again, as well as worried. When he pulls the duvet back over her he leaves his hand on his shoulder a moment and she doesn't pull away, so he perches on the end of the bed.

"Are you sick?" He asks hopelessly, because at this point he's really stumped. And then she twists and burrows away from him and he realises, fuck, that bipolar doesn't just mean being high as a kite and he definitely should have seen this coming.

"I'm sorry" she whispers, still not looking at him. "I didn't want you to see me like this."

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"Carrie, you're still the same person. Highs and lows don't change you."

She twists so far away from him that her face is buried in the mattress and he sits beside her, resting a hand lightly between her shoulderblades, palm down.

"Can you talk to me?"

She shakes her head mutely but doesn't move away. He lets his thumb trace circles on the base of her neck; she's still trembling although he can't tell if it's from cold or emotion.

Quinn isn't a carer by nature. He's a killer. He does what he needs to do and takes home a tidy pay cheque at the end of it and doesn't think too carefully about the feelings or emotions of others. He's never felt so impotent as he does now; like a psychotherapist at a gunfight, he thinks with some dark amusement. He desperately wants to do something but just has no fucking clue how. Talking clearly isn't helping; he's not really sure the physical contact is either. Making a cup of tea is just far too British a solution to something like this. Alcohol probably isn't really a plan either. Though it's increasingly feeling like something he'd like for himself. How did he get into this?

"I really don't know what to do here" he admits finally; he knows that she knows him well enough to have felt his tension.

Surprisingly she seems to relax a bit at that. Maybe it's easier when people are honest with her rather than bullshitting that they understand, he thinks.

"You don't have to stay" she says softly, flatly; "I'm hardly the best company."

"Do you want me to leave?"

She hesitates a beat; two; her lip trembles and he honest to god thinks she's going to say yes, but she doesn't (and he should be used to her surprising him by now).

"Stay."

Her hand emerges from under the blankets and closes briefly over his and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"It's really just a neurochemical imbalance" she says in the same flat tone, "it'll probably never go away, but it's just so hard to reconcile feeling like this when the opposite is so..." She trails off, eyes distant. "There are days when I'd do anything to make it stop."

He tries not to think too hard about that, what she means; tries not to think about how close or far away she is from taking that step. The thought of her feeling so desperate makes him feel cold inside.

"Can I ask something?"

She pauses and nods cautiously.

"Why are you so anti-medication? I mean, I know the lithium dulls you. But aren't there other options?"

She pulls a face.

"I worry the only reason I'm good at my job is this" she admits, so quietly he almost can't hear her. "And I'm nothing without my job."

"I wouldn't say that" he says evenly. "You're worth quite a lot to me, in case you hadn't noticed."

Like she always does when someone compliments her, she looks somewhere between shocked and derisive before her energy seems to vanish and she sinks back into the bed.

He unbuttons his shirt, kicks off his shoes and slips his jeans off, folding himself around her. It feels good. It feels natural. Her skin is cool and dry against his chest; he's missed this, missed waking up with her plastered to his side. He's missed her.

"Can I make a suggestion?" He asks softly, and she shrugs beneath his arm.

"Why don't you get a second opinion?"

"They'll all say the same thing" she mumbles, "that lithium is the best."

Quinn sighs and tightens his arm around her briefly.

"If you were missing something in a case...if it wasn't all fitting together...what would you do?"

"Ask for help" she says, so softly he can hardly hear it. He doesn't need to say anything else; he's made his point and it's up to her if she wants to take it on board.

They lie there in silence for a while, neither sleeping. Carrie straightens out fractionally at one point, pressing her leg flat against Quinn's as though she can only manage human contact a few inches at a time.

He's never felt the need to protect anyone as badly as this. His stomach clenches with it and he is overcome with the urge to squeeze her as tight as he can, as though he can somehow seal the cracks with sheer physical force.

She straightens her other leg then, slowly, so she fits against his frame, and then relaxes her shoulders so they meet his chest.

Cautiously, he shifts behind her, bringing one arm over her hip and squeezing her hand. Slowly, weakly, she squeezes back.


	9. Chapter 9

Several weeks later she takes a seat across from him in the canteen and smiles at him. That's enough to put him on his guard; conversations with Carrie rarely seem to follow the initial impression.

He pushes his coffee towards her invitingly and, after a quick look to make sure nobody's watching this brief moment of semi-intimacy she takes a sip an sighs with satisfaction.

"Thanks"

"No problem"

He knows she's there for some specific reason because her shoulders are tense and her back straight. Facial expression: calm, bordering on overly so. He waits it out, sipping his coffee.

"I went to the independent psychiatrist" she says in a low tone. Quinn thinks this could go either way; he's not used to her being this calm or open about her bipolar. Feels like he might be about to get both barrels or a sincere thanks.

"He told me the rate of relapse with lithium is way higher than other meds if you stop it suddenly" her expression shadows "which is why I've always felt so awful on it. He said there were alternatives we could try- less strong alternatives that wouldn't slow me down so much. I've been taking quetiapine for a week now and...it's okay."

Quinn tries to keep his face unreadable but has a feeling some relief seeps through.

"It's not going to change who I am but...you're the first person who's asked me to do anything other than just take my fucking meds and I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about it."

He doesn't know what to say; doesn't want to patronise her by saying well done for going, doesn't want to downplay the significance. Thankfully, as ever, she asks the right question.

"What're you thinking?"

He grins, self deprecating.

"I'm thinking I want to do something really lame and sappy like hold your hand" he says bluntly, and she barks out a surprised laugh.

"Let's go" she says, tilting her head towards the door, expression unreadable. He has no idea what's happening but nonetheless follows her out of the canteen and down a flight of stairs before she pushes the door of the ladies open with one shoulder, has a quick look inside and turns back to him with a genuine smile. Probably something good then, his mind supplies.

Her fingers lace through his as she tugs him inside, locking them both in the end cubicle and pulling him down to kiss her.

It's heated and affectionate in the same moment; one of her hands is tangled in his hair just shy of painful but the other one is still holding his, thumb playing over the back of his hand.

The kiss is becoming messy, sloppy, bordering on filthy and he's well on the way to hard, hip pressing against hers as she backs him into the wall.

She pulls away, mischief in her eyes, and puts a finger to her lips as her other hand works the buckle of his belt.

Message: don't make a sound.

He tilts his head quizzically and the moments later lets it fall back against the wall as Carrie drops to her knees and tugs his trousers down, one hand holding him steady by his hip.

She presses a kiss to his hipbone first, open mouthed, a flick of tongue, and then slides her lips over the head of his cock. He makes a strangled noise and her eyes flick up to him; obediently he puts a hand over his mouth and she smiles.

It's fucking incredible, the things she can do with her mouth. For a split second he wonders if he should have an ethical problem with her using head as a means of thanking him, but then she licks a stripe along the vein on the underside of his cock and he has to bite down on his hand to keep from moaning and he decides that moral crises can wait.

She gets into a pattern that's pushing him closer and closer to the edge, twisting her lips around the head before swallowing him down whole and sliding her lips back again. He doesn't know if it's the sensations or the knowledge that it's her but it's breaking his mind in a million different ways and he doesn't think he's ever been this hard, almost aching with the need to come.

And then, just when he thinks he's about to claw back his self control, that he's anticipated her rhythm, she pulls back with a fraction of a scrape of teeth along his shaft, her nails dig sharply into his hip, and with a strangled sob that he hides in his palm he comes undone, orgasm almost taking him by surprise, his entire body spasming, vision blurring and knees weak. She supports him to the floor, peppering kisses up his body; hip, stomach, ribcage, chest, collarbone, neck.

He can barely breathe with the intensity of his orgasm, definitely can't speak. There are teeth marks in his hand that he doesn't remember making. The bite throbs. The last throes of his orgasm are still making him twitch. He can't remember ever feeling so utterly spent.

Carrie touches his chin and he manages to muster enough energy to pull her close, carding his hands through her hair.

After a few minutes she stirs, licks her lips and sits up straight, her back and shoulders cracking.

"You ok?" She asks with a hint of amusement and he smiles back, aware he probably looks goofy as fuck.

"I don't know how I'm meant to go back to work and achieve anything now" he grumbles good-naturedly.

She gives him a hand to his feet and he grabs her by the waist, pulling her flush against him and kisses her, soft and slow and intense. Half 'thank you' and half 'just wait for tonight'. If the vaguely glazed look she's wearing as he pulls away is anything to go by, she gets it.

She catches his wrist as he goes to open the door, and slips out ahead of him, checking the coast is clear before she nudges him out with her shoulder.

"Go do some work" she says with a smile, and squeezes his hand quickly before disappearing towards the lifts.


	10. Chapter 10

They're just watching some crap on TV when Carrie huffs a sudden, surprised laugh.

"You know what today is?"

"Friday?"

"It's a year today since that night in the bar."

Well fuck. Quinn wonders if his surprise is clear on his face because she laughs again and shakes her head.

"I can't believe you've stuck it out this long" she says, and it's only half a joke, painfully insecure under the cover of flippancy. If he's honest, there's a part of him that harbours the same disbelief that someone can tolerate him for a year.

He suddenly wants her to understand how precious this has become to him, this odd stability they've built.

"I didn't kiss anyone for years before I met you" he says, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "I fucked people left right and centre, you know how it is. But kissing someone...that's letting them get too close. I'd do anything to avoid it."

Carrie smiles, though doesn't turn to face him.

"I understand" she says simply, and the thing is, he thinks she does. It's why they work.

"Anything else?" she asks

"You know I have a son too" he says. It isn't a question and she doesn't treat it as one.

"You don't see him" she confirms, and he nods.

"It's the only thing I regret about my job" he says, honestly. "But I can't be a father to someone who could be used against me."

"Does the mother know?"

He wonders how she feels. If there's a bite of jealousy behind the even tone to her question; and if it would be jealousy of the other woman or of having a child.

"We don't have much contact" he replies, "she understands that it's safer that way."

Carrie hums in agreement but there's suddenly something far-off and closed in her expression.

"Carrie?"

She looks at him and there's a painful fragility in her expression.

"If you walked away from this job..,you'd go back to them"

'You'd leave me' hangs unspoken in the air; suddenly the inches between them on the sofa feel like miles. He doesn't know what to say and goldfishes for an interminable moment, and she shakes her head, lip trembling.

"Carrie..."

She shakes her head again and gets up abruptly.

"It's fine. I'm just going to get some fresh air."

He sits there helplessly as she grabs her keys and shoes; if nothing else over the last year he's learnt not to push her when she's like this. The door slams behind her and he settles back into the sofa with an aggrieved sigh and waits for her to come back.

Carrie holds it together until she's out of the door, and then the tears start falling. Stupid, stupid girl for letting herself get caught up in this when there's every chance that he would, entirely reasonably, go back to his child. Who wouldn't? Who would stay with someone so vulnerable and exhausting as her when they had the chance for a full life with a woman and a child?

She's never felt as close to someone as she does to him; never trusted anyone so wholly. And she's never deluded herself so completely; never not thought about the worst case scenario until now. She's been so oblivious to the risks they've been running, so caught up in the fun and stability and support that she's forgotten who she is and what she does.

And now he's in her house, a year on, and she's in so far over her head. She's let it go on for long enough that she feels more than a pang of jealousy at the thought of him with another woman; had a brief dream that she would be the person he settled down with and who got to carry his kids. Stupid, stupid girl.

The tears won't stop now; she sinks against the wall and sobs until she's exhausted and her eyes throb.

She has two choices now; she can go home and face Quinn, talk through her concerns and fears and wants, or she can go to the nearest bar, get wasted and go home with the next bad news man who comes along, leaving Quinn waiting for her at home. He'll walk away if she does that, she knows- he's too proud to tolerate that, of all the things she could throw at him.

A year ago she wouldn't have even had to think about it; she would be in the bar eyeing up potential candidates, planning out the best way to bail on Quinn.

A year later she doesn't even have to think about it either; the thought of the betrayal on his face makes her gut clench and before she knows it her legs have taken her home, her key turns in the latch and he's standing there waiting for her, a hint of fragility in his face, and she flies at him, tears coming again.

He catches her, engulfs her in his arms, holding her tight and pressing his lips to her hair until she stops shaking.

He manoeuvres her to the sofa and pulls her into his lap, both unwilling to let go of each other.

"Will you hear me out?" He asks softly, smoothing her hair back. Her face is buried in his neck and she shakes her head, but he's nothing if not stubborn and flatly ignores her.

"What do you think I'm doing here, Carrie? You think I'm just killing time here til I'm done working and then I run back to the woman and child who barely even know my face? You think that's the kind of man I am?"

There's more annoyance than he wanted in his voice but he can't make himself stop now, even as she pulls away from him to sit up.

"Just because you've always made self destructive decisions, don't imply that I do as well. Carrie, why do you think I'm here?"

"I don't know, ok? I don't know why you're here. I don't know what you want!"

Suddenly they're on opposite sides of the sofa and he's genuinely furious.

"That's bullshit and you know it" he snarls "don't try and make this about me when you're just freaking out because we're a year in and you've just panicked that you're in something you don't know how to deal with. Don't blame me because you're too much of a coward to stick it out."

She recoils as though he's slapped her, and the fire leaves her in increments.

"I would just walk away if I were you" she says hopelessly, "it's the safest thing to do."

"Do you want me to walk away?" He asks, and honest to god he doesn't know what he'll do if she says yes.

"I love you" she says, and it hits him like a bullet to the gut. "I love you and it scares the crap out of me. So yes, I want you to walk away. I want you to get out of my life so I can be heartbroken and move on and not open myself up again."

His voice isn't entirely steady when he replies.

"And if I don't want to walk away?"

She softens, visibly, and moves around the sofa, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Then don't. But you know how I am, Peter. This conversation will probably happen again in the future. I'm hardly an easy person to..." She trails off; he finds it amusing she can declare her love for him but still not accept that they're in a relationship.

"I want to be with you" he says firmly, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't. At least trust me on that. I can't change my past and neither can you but if I wanted to be with those people I wouldn't have walked away from them. I'm not going to walk away from you."

Her hand trails down his arm until her fingers circle his wrist. He wonders if she can feel the hammering of his pulse; when her fingers linger there he knows she does, but she won't comment. Instead she links their fingers together and leans her head against his chest.

"Are deep conversations always this traumatic?" She asks, and he can feel wetness against his shirt.

"For people like us? I think they might be" he says, a hint of a shake to his voice that still won't go away.

He takes her upstairs then and lays her out on the bed, slowly, carefully. He indulges himself in treating her like she's precious and fragile; she won't usually tolerate it, usually fights back against any perceived softness. Tonight, emotionally drained, she's pliant against him, soft and yielding to his touch. He takes his time exploring her body, sliding and twisting his fingers into her until she's breathless and moaning softly into his mouth, tracking every square inch of skin with his mouth. And when he does finally push in, it's slow and sweet and like nothing he's ever done before.

He wrings orgasm after orgasm from her until her moans have turned into whimpers and whimpers to sighs, and only then does he let himself lose control, catching her gaze as he snaps his hips forward, feeling the animalistic rush of dominance as she clings to his shoulders. His orgasm is almost secondary to the feeling of contentment; she holds on to him for minutes afterwards, fingertips stroking down his chest, peaceful and relaxed in a way he rarely gets to experience.

He wants to tell her how much he means to him; he wants to tell her he loves her, but his throat closes up and all he can do is hold her.


	11. Chapter 11

They've been working hard- too hard- when Quinn makes the suggestion that they get away for a few days. And when Carrie agrees with minimal fuss or anxiety he knows they've been working too hard. The fact that she's threatened one of her co-workers with chemical castration for bringing her the wrong file corroborates that, and in some ways he's disappointed he can't use it as a selling point to her, because it was (and is) hilarious.

Carrie asks Saul for the time off as leave and then a day later Quinn cites family reasons and says he'll be back in a week. Honestly, if Saul suspects something, Quinn is almost past caring. They'll have to tell him at some point, but that's not a bridge he wants to cross right now.

It feels simultaneously the most normal and strange thing in the world to board a plane together, no fake passports or firearms hidden in their luggage. They fly first class (never let it be said that the CIA doesn't pay well for the risks they run) and get drunk on free gin before they're even out of American airspace. Carrie dozes lightly, her head on his shoulder, and when he laces his fingers through hers she squeezes back sleepily. This, Quinn thinks, is perfect.

They spend days walking the backstreets of Sicily hand in hand, sunning themselves on the beach, drinking ice-cold wine in the middle of the day. Carrie fills out, finally eating regularly. It's the first time he's seen her tanned, and probably the first time he's seen her truly relaxed; when he looks in the mirror he sees the changes in himself as well. Not for the first time he wonders if this is what life would be like away from the CIA. If they could move away, live a peaceful life somewhere. He wonders if she'd get bored. He wonders, more frequently than he's comfortable with, what it would be like to marry her, to have children with her. Her reaction to his ex partner and son intrigues him; he still doesn't know how many parts jealousy and insecurity made up that meltdown.

They go out to dinner on the last night and he thinks it's funny they never do this back at home. She's wearing a silky green dress that does great things to her tan and bad things to his self control, and she looks so happy and relaxed that it breaks his heart that they have to go back to life and walk away from this.

She's faraway in her own thoughts too, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers.

He catches her hand, draws it to his lips and kisses her knuckles.

"This has been perfect" she says, her cheeks flushed by the candlelight, and he nods in agreement

"Shall we just stay here?"

She grins delightedly

"Great plan..,until Saul comes and hauls us back to Langley"

He grimaces at the idea and runs his thumb over the back of her hand.

The wine is good; he feels mellow and relaxed. No need for words at the moment as they sip their drinks and look out at the view.

Later they walk down the beach hand in hand, barefoot, Carrie swinging her shoes over her shoulder. He's lost track of the times he thinks she couldn't look any more beautiful, and each time the thought seems to almost take him by surprise. This time, as she looks over her shoulder at him, he can't resist taking a photo; she moves back towards him, dropping a kiss to the corner of his lip as he turns the camera back on them. Their first photo together, he realises. They look good. They look happy. It should scare him, but it doesn't. He is happy. He's not bored. He's not trapped.

He catches her by the waist, kisses the back of her neck, kisses her shoulder, kisses her cheek and then spins her round, one hand sliding up to cup her face, and kisses her properly. She arches against him, and the bad things her dress was doing to his self control? Well the self control's gone, so that's irrelevant now. He slides the dress down over her shoulder, catches her surprised gasp in his mouth.

They fuck under the stars on the beach and then make love (and when did that become something they did?) back at the hotel until they're exhausted, sated, sweaty. They shower the sand off together and sleep soundly, curled up together, until the alarm goes the next morning.

"Let's just stay here" she groans from beneath the covers, "everything aches and I don't want to go back"

He grimaces in agreement and stretches, enjoying the burn of his muscles, the crack of his joints. His body's getting old, he knows - he doesn't have the recovery time he used to, in field work at least. He's needed this holiday as much as Carrie did.

Quinn peels the covers back, brushes Carrie's hair out of her face. She looks up with sleepy, smiling eyes and pulls him down, the heat of her kiss belying her grogginess, and as he slides a hand under her vest and around her back to hold her close, deepening the kiss, he thinks that in some respects at least his recovery time is just fine.

Less than a week after they come back from Sicily he gets a call from Dar Adal at 3am and is packing a bag as quietly as he can when Carrie comes padding downstairs. He doesn't know when 99% of his belongings ended up at her house but until she tells him to move them he's not complaining.

"What's going on?" she asks groggily, eyes flicking around the room, "You have to go?"

He doesn't want to. It's probably the first time in his career he's actively not wanted to go on a mission. The thought makes him feel extremely uncomfortable and he doesn't dwell on it.

"I don't know when I'll be back" he says honestly, putting down his gun and moving towards her. "It's a distance trip"

She understands; knows she can't ask more. Something inside of her feels heavy and anxious at the thought of him going, of being without him, but she can't afford the weakness. They can't afford the weakness.

"You'll be careful?"

There's more vulnerability in the question and her tone than she was aiming for but he doesn't comment on it.

"I will" he kisses her, grabs his bag, kisses her again, fervently this time. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

When the door clicks behind him she almost wants to cry. She sinks into the sofa, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock. Could be days, weeks, months until she sees him again. The thought genuinely panics her. Sleep won't come now, she thinks, and she goes to put the kettle on. It's cold and quiet in the house, a discernible (psychological) difference.

She pulls out her phone and texts him, not giving herself time to second check it.

_'I miss you. Be safe. Come home soon. x'_

On the table his phone buzzes and she swears quietly; black ops, of course he can't take it with him.

She sits quietly then, staring out of the window until the sun comes up.


End file.
